


Kintsugi

by HillaryEvergreen



Category: Billary - Fandom, Political RPF, Political RPF - US 21st c.
Genre: F/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-06-11
Updated: 2017-06-11
Packaged: 2018-11-13 00:12:26
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,011
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11172951
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/HillaryEvergreen/pseuds/HillaryEvergreen
Summary: The world breaks everyone,and afterward many are strong at the broken places.Ernest Hemingway





	Kintsugi

 

* * *

 

 _November 2016_  
_Chappaqua, NY_

 

The door was open a crack when Bill came up the stairs. Hillary could hear the progress of his ascent, and his slow and steady plodding down the hall. She knew the sound of his footfalls like the back of her hand; the cadence of his stride, the exact weight of his steps on the carpet. The hesitant creak of the door as he opened it further, tentative, letting himself into their bedroom.

From her place burrowed under the covers, she could sense him drawing near. He circled the foot of the bed, and the mattress shifted under her body as he eased himself onto her side. She curled up tighter, turning her face into his pillow as his voice floated through the duvet.

“Hey, that’s my side,” he said. His voice was gentle, good humored. Sweet.

She didn’t answer, opting instead to breathe in the comforting smell, peppery and masculine, from the place he usually slept. Rock solid. Something to cling to.

“Honey… where are you in there?” She felt his hand press against her hip softly through the layers of cotton.

She blew out a breath, screwing her eyes shut against the intruding light as the edge of the thick covers lifted. She felt the mattress shift again, and then he was there beside her.

“Hi, sweetheart.” He eased in next to her, face to face, looking across to where she laid curled up on her side.

“Hi,” she whispered back.

“Can I hold you?”

She nodded, one quick jerk of her head against the pillow, trying to keep it together as his arms encircled her and pulled her across the bed and into his chest. He didn’t ask her if she was okay - he didn’t need to. He knew she wasn’t; not yet. And so he just held her instead, and buried his nose in her soft hair, pressing kisses into the part at the crown.

“Do you know how much I love you?” He asked, mouth muffled against her. She gave another nod. “So much. More than I can ever tell you. I’m so proud of you.”

He gave her a firm squeeze, and she nuzzled her nose into the soft, pale grey of his sweater.

“You’re so good, honey. You’re so good.” Despite everything, Hillary felt an uncoiling in her chest as he touched her. Her pain and frustration eased up, just for a moment. Just long enough for her to take a deep breath. “You’re so good, my little _Hee-ree_.”

A small smile flickered across her lips, almost in spite of herself, at the sound of that sweet nickname. It took her back to moments wedged in her mind; grand ones, and tender ones. Standing on a stage in Ghana in front of tens of thousands of smiling faces, him right next to her, clasping hands, whispering to her and glowing with pride. Such a long way from Arkansas.

Or their first night in the White House, between soft kisses, legs tangled with legs, her back to his front and his mouth on her ear: “What’s it like to make love to a President, sweet _Hee-ree?_ ”

How they giggled together. How she made love to him again, just to make sure she could answer his question.

She raised her head up from his chest, planted her chin there as she was wont to do, and looked up at him. The interior of their blanket cave was dim, but she could see the sparkle in him that she knew so well. He was hurting for her - she could sense it - but she marvelled at how he was being so strong anyways. How hope and heart could glimmer behind those kind blue eyes, blotting out the pain and disappointment.

“I’m a mess, aren’t I?”

“Yes.”

His simple answer elicited a quiet laugh, followed by the customary shaking of her shoulders.

“Yes, but I love you anyways,” he said, smacking a wet kiss on her cheek. “And I’ll get a real laugh out of you before the day is through.”

“Hmm,” she hummed into his chest, burrowing her nose deeper into the cashmere.

“Do you remember… do you remember when you found me on the floor of my office back in Little Rock, after we moved out of the governor's mansion the first time?”

She winced at the memory of his defeat. It felt even more raw next to her own. She nodded. 

“Do you remember what you told me?”

She was quiet for moment, then raised her face to look at him again. A faint smile crept across her mouth.

“I… I told you to get your ass up and take me dancing,” she blinked, her expression almost bashful, gazing up at him through feathery blonde eyelashes. Bill laughed.

“Now, honey, I’m not in the mood for dancing, but -” she laughed along with him. Not the deep, husky laugh he was looking for, but closer now. “But! But, you haven’t eaten in the past twenty-four hours, and I think we need to remedy that.”

“Hmm. I want breakfast.”

“It’s six o’clock, baby.”

“Hey! Losers get to be choosers,” she said. Self deprecating to the end.

“Okay. Breakfast.” He squeezed her again. “And one more thing, Hilly, baby -”

He cupped her chin in his fingers and gently lifted her face to look up at him.

“Brush your damn teeth, _Hee-ree_.”

Hillary let out a laugh at that, throwing her head back, and she kicked at the covers as Bill’s fingers found her waist, tickling her. They writhed together under the blankets as his hands clutched her, making her giggle, fumbling and then kissing sweetly, like they were young again.

-

Bacon was sizzling temptingly on the range when Hillary made her way into the kitchen, knotting her robe at her waist. She had relented to a shower, and her hair hung damp around her ears and jaw, combed back from her high forehead. She had donned her glasses, and a delicate flush settled rosy pink on her nose and cheeks. Bill cast a glance at her over his shoulder from his place in front of the counter, where he was slicing thick slabs of honeydew melon. He set the knife down and walked over to her.

“I love you like this,” he said, reaching up to tuck her wet hair, cast a dark golden blonde in the shower, behind her ear. He ducked his head to press a kiss to her smooth forehead, holding her head gently in one hand while the other settled on the crook of her neck. “You’re so beautiful to me, do you know that?”

Her eyes slipped closed as his lips brushed across her skin, and she nodded, humming appreciatively.

She settled onto a stool at the island to watch him as he returned to his task, graceful hands precisely maneuvering the heavy chef’s knife, carving out chunks of dripping melon. He turned now and then to flip the bacon, to crack eggs into a porcelain bowl.

“Tea?”

She nodded, chin on her fist, enjoying watching him take care of her. He set a mug in front of her, poured the water he had already boiled for her into her favourite yellow teapot, and scooped in the loose leaves.

“Would you like to talk about it?”

She nodded, running a fingertip around the rim of her cup as she waited for the tea to steep. Sometimes, the answer was no. Sometimes she just wanted him to be her husband. But tonight, she wanted his advice - his guidance. Just for a while.

“What are you thinking about?”

She paused.

“What to do next.”

“Of course.”

She smiled ruefully. Action was always the best course, to her. The only course. She had to move forward.

“I need to write something… something for the people who believed in me… an email? Something. Something so they know I’m not going anywhere, that they should persist, and that I’m still with them.”

Bill placed the bowl of honeydew before her, and she lifted a piece to her mouth, chewing thoughtfully.

“And then I need to figure out what to do after that.”

“Are you going to run again?” 

She nearly choked on the fruit.

“Are you kidding? Fuck no,” she said, shaking her head forcefully. “Good God, no.”

“Well, it’s worth asking.” He poured the eggs into a heavy skillet. “I wanted to be the first to do it. I’m not going to be the last.” 

“I want to write again.” 

“About the campaign?”

“Yes, I think so.” 

Talking was helping. It was still so fresh, but she needed the forward momentum to drag her out of the little hell she was living in. 

“I want to capture how it…” She swallowed. “Felt. Feels.” 

How would she even begin to describe it? How could she describe how it felt that night. How it felt the next morning. How it was to face aides with tears running down their cheeks while she had to keep her head up, and not falter for a moment. How she had to deliver the message that she believed in more than anything - that there would be a peaceful transition of power. That the fundamental tradition of her beloved country, the bedrock of their democracy, must live on. How it felt in the car after, when she asked to ride with Bill alone so no one would hear her cry in his arms.

“But not just feelings. Data.”

“Data?”

“Yeah.” She filled her mug. “Data. Hard facts. I want people to know what happened. What mistakes we made, sure. And what was out of our control. What they need to watch out for in the midterms, in 2020. The team is already working on the post-mortem, but I want to make sure that information gets out to the voters at large, not just consultants and operatives.”

She blew on the tea, sipping slowly.

“You remember the work we did at the State Department, back in 2010? The initiatives to combat radicalization online?”

“Sure, to counter the al Qaeda recruiting efforts,” he answered.

She nodded.

“We were being strategic, forward-thinking. But we got caught with our pants down on our own soil.” He could hear the edge in her voice, the frustration. “What about the radicalization of our own people? We got lazy. We let it happen under our noses.”

“Correct the Record-”

“It was too late by then. We were already on the defense. We weren’t ready to fight a propaganda war - not like that.” She sighed, feeling herself start to wind up. “There’s so much to say. I have all of my notes from the campaign trail, and the post-mortem data will come… but I want to get things out while it’s still fresh.”

Bill nodded, pulling a plate and silverware from the cupboard, piling up the plate with steaming eggs and bacon. He placed it in front of her and settled in on a neighbouring stool. He pulled a half-eaten piece of melon from her hand and popped it into his mouth.

“I have something for you,” he said, as she prodded at the eggs with her fork.

“Is it Tabasco?” She asked, smirking at him.

“Ah! How could I forget!” He clucked his tongue at himself and fetched the bottle for her, watching in amusement as she doused her plate. “Is that all it takes to make you happy, honey?”

She shrugged.

“I’m a simple woman, what can I say?”

“You are many things, Hilly,” he laughed. “But simple is not one of them.”

He stood again and pulled a package, flat, wide and rectangular, wrapped in pretty yellow paper, from a drawer.

“What’s this?” She asked as he handed it to her, turning it in her hands. “A book?”

“Open it.”

She did, gently pushing her finger under the fold of the paper, careful not to tear it. One of her many quirks.

“Do you remember that Mother’s Day at the Little Rock church, when the pastor asked what the kids all wanted to give their moms, and Chelsea put up her hand and said, ‘Life insurance!’, because she wanted you to live forever?”

Hillary laughed. A real laugh, this time - a true, honest-to-God, genuine Hillary laugh. Bill beamed.

“Of course,” she said, dragging her finger down the parting of the paper. “Clever girl.”

“Well,” he continued, “the wonderful thing about writing is that, in some way, it allows great people - great _women_ \- to live on forever.”

He watched her face as she pulled away the paper to reveal a beautiful journal, broad and thick in her small hands, bound in soft white leather. Imprinted in the front were her own words - “ _Valuable & Powerful & Deserving”. _She gasped quietly, running the pads of her fingers over the cover, and then flipping through the pages to reveal luxurious, creamy white paper, empty and awaiting her words, save a note on the first:

 _You are a beacon. You are light. You are good. Your words will shine through the darkness._  
_I adore you.  
\- Your Bill_

“Seems we’ve been thinking along the same lines,” he whispered, leaning in close. “Something to store all of those words. Something a little prettier than your usual legal pads.”

She looked up at him, eyes glassy with unshed tears.

“It’s beautiful. Thank you, honey.”

He pressed a quick kiss to her nose. He left so much unsaid, for now - how she was the strongest person he knew. That he was absolutely certain that she would be just fine. That she would rise again, stronger than ever; that her brokenness was temporary. That she would fuse back together, stronger at the breaks. That she would fill them with gold, gleaming and beautiful. _Kintsugi._

Instead, he smiled at her, lowering his head in respect to the woman who had always made him a better man, and hoped he could help her stay unbowed, as she had for him.

“You’re so welcome, Hilly.”

_-_

When the dishes had been washed and the journal stowed safely on the desk in her office, after the lights had been dimmed, and after he had poured his wife a glass of wine, they settled in together on the couch. Hillary curled up against his chest, a blanket over her lap, sighing contentedly now and then as Bill ran his fingers through her hair.

Their conversation ranged the gamut, from a re-litigation of the primaries through to the general, back to Bill’s too-late insistence to her consultants about resources needed in the Rust Belt, through to Macedonian propaganda, upcoming speeches to donors, and how she could support the woman candidates of the present and future. They agreed and disagreed, and debated, and she felt herself slip into the familiar place where they did so well together - where they could match wits and bat ideas back-and-forth. She watched him, in that space between amusement and admiration and respect, desire and delight and sparking minds, as one hand remained wound up in her hair and the other gesticulated passionately in the air before him as he refuted one of her points.

“Okay, okay, I think that’s enough for tonight,” she said, laughing, defeated in this particular area of their debate. She looked up at him and rubbed her lips together, her eyes moving from his baby blues down to his mouth and back again. “I’d like for you to be my husband for the rest of the night.”

It was a familiar refrain - not just recently, but in all of the years of their marriage, and particularly when she had become a senator. When he, in turn, became the escape and respite for her big heart, when the pressure and cynicism would become a bit too much. He smiled down at her.

“There’s nothing I want more than that.”

He cupped her cheek in his palm and ducked his head to kiss her sweetly, brushing his mouth over her bottom lip, smiling against her when he felt her lips part with a content sigh. A slow chill ran down his spine when she pressed back against him, her lips parting again, meeting his in a languid and deep kiss.

“Tell me what you need, my girl,” he whispered against her mouth.

“I need you to hold me,” she responded, turning in his arms. “Hold me, and kiss me, and make love to me, honey.”

He couldn’t find his words, and so he kissed her again as a response. Since her defeat, their lovemaking had run the range from hard and fiery to slow, sweet and tender, but always passionate, deeply so, and often. It had been years since they had so much time available to spend together, and beyond the distraction from pain it provided, they were taking advantage of the quiet season in their life to love on each other in a way that had never before been afforded to them. He hadn’t been surprised that the spark of desire between them was still impossible to quench, even after all these years, and even with the time they now had available to lie wrapped up in each other on lazy and sugary-sweet afternoons, late into evenings, and mornings when he would wake up slow in her arms.

She turned to face him fully, her legs tucked underneath her, arms winding up around his shoulders. Bill slipped her glasses down her nose and over her ears, and set them on the table beside the sofa, returning his hand to cradle her jaw. The other stroked the curve of her spine, between her shoulderblades and down to rest at the small of her back. He marveled for a moment at how she felt so much the same in his hands as she had when they first tangled up on a couch together over forty years before.

As he pressed gentle kisses to her cheeks, her jaw, down the side of her neck, he hoped he could find his way to all of the broken places. To fill them with gold, and to help make her whole again.

 

* * *

 


End file.
